


Found

by Misdemeanor1331



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Character Death, Child Abuse, F/M, Gore, Horror, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-04-19 07:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14232501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: While flying back home from a friend’s baby shower, Hermione Granger gets caught in a fierce autumn storm and is forced to land in the middle of a forest. Eight months pregnant and desperate for shelter, she eventually finds refuge in the isolated cabin of Theodore Nott. She thinks she’s safe, but soon realizes that quiet, unassuming Theo is more dangerous to her life - and the life of her unborn child - than any storm.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this piece for the HP Horror Fest 2018. My prompt was submitted by pommedeplume. Thanks for the inspiration! 
> 
> **Prompt #45** : Out of the frying pan and into the fire: Character escapes a traumatic event, only to stumble upon a cabin whose sole resident seems kindly but is even more dangerous than what they escaped.  
>  **Suggested Character(s)/Pairing(s)** : Any.  
>  **Any Optional Extras** : The cabin's resident is not a villain in canon.
> 
> Thanks to the mods for hosting this fest. There's not enough HP horror, in my opinion, and I'm happy to have the chance to contribute to the genre! 
> 
> Thanks as well to my beta, AkaShika, for the quick turnaround, thorough Brit-pick, and character help! All remaining errors are mine.

**Part One**

Hermione Granger tried to keep her broom steady as another gust of wind blew her sideways. It was simple enough to pinpoint where her decisions had transitioned from stubborn to foolish. She should have accepted Luna and Ernie’s invitation to wait out the storm in their cosy spare bedroom, even if it meant spending the night away from Ron and the comfort of her home. Instead, she had dismissed the dark grey clouds, which loomed over the distant tree line like a massive wall, as a fast-moving autumn squall and something she could miss entirely. 

She had been wrong, Luna had been right, and she would never admit either aloud. 

Heavy raindrops began pelting her cloak, a pretty brown suede anniversary gift that was now ruined. Not that Ron would be angry about the cloak, but it would inevitably provide the spark to rekindle the argument they had had before she left. She knew no one would have blamed her for declining Luna’s baby shower. At eight months pregnant herself, she no longer fit into most Floos, and since her pregnancy was classified as high-risk, Apparition was not an option. The real sticking point, which she had discovered after some increasingly pointed questions, had been her mode of transportation. She had wanted to fly, Ron had wanted her to drive. He didn’t care that the journey would’ve taken twice as long or that she was now somewhat competent on a broomstick. She didn’t like that he didn’t trust her judgment. 

She had been wrong, Ron had been right, and maybe she would admit it aloud. 

The broom shimmied as a rolling growl of thunder shook the sky, making Hermione’s next judgment call clear: she had to land, find shelter, and wait out the storm. 

Bare branches scraped against her arms and cheeks as she made her unsteady descent into the forest, and her grip only relaxed when both feet were firmly planted. An indistinct flash of lightning lit the clouds and she paused to count. Fifteen seconds elapsed before she heard thunder; the storm was about three miles away. She didn’t have much time. 

Hermione laid her wand flat on her palm. “ _Homenum Revelio_.” The vine wood twitched toward the northwest, and though it was hardly an encouraging sign, it was better than aimless wandering. She hefted the broom over her shoulder, lit her wand, and began to walk. 

The forest grew darker as the storm grew nearer, her wandlight useless in the sheeting rain. The thick layer of decomposing autumn leaves turned slick. She leaned on the broom to keep from falling, but it made a poor crutch. She winced whenever a tail twig snapped, imagining Ron’s reaction when she eventually made it home. But her wand had become more confident in its directions, pointing steadily northwest whenever she checked it. After walking for forty minutes, she felt resistance, a subtle push against her chest. Property wards. 

She shoved through them, then paused. A wooden cabin had appeared in what had been an impassable thicket two steps ago. Though its windows were dark, a thin trail of smoke slithered from its chimney, barely visible through the rain. She lurched toward it on tired legs and pounded on the door. 

“Hello?” She had to shout to be heard over the rain. “Hello? Please, I need -” 

A flash of lightning and a near immediate crack of thunder shook the world around her. For an insane second, she thought it had opened the door for her. 

But it hadn’t. Framed in the doorway, half-shadowed by the cabin’s interior gloom, was someone she knew. He was tall, thin, and pale, with squared-off features, dark hair, and intriguing hazel eyes. Still, it took her a minute to find his name. 

“Theodore Nott.” 

His chin rose in subtle acknowledgement. 

“Hermione Granger.” 

His voice was deeper than she remembered. Or maybe it had always been that way. He’d never been talkative, and outside of their Arithmancy class, he’d had no reason to speak to her. 

“I got caught in the storm.” 

Nott’s brow furrowed, and Hermione put a hand atop her belly as his eyes flicked down. 

“I can’t Apparate.” 

He didn’t move, and Hermione felt her heart sink. What would she do if he turned her away? Her casual trousers and top did nothing to keep out the cold, her shoes were soaked, and her ruined cloak felt like a lead blanket laid across her shoulders. Her legs and back ached, and she had no idea where she was or how she was going to get home. 

“Please, Theodo -” 

He stepped aside and gestured her inside. 

“Call me Theo.” 

“ _Thank you_ ,” she said on an exhale. 

An involuntary shiver ran through her as Nott closed the door. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the cabin’s dim lighting. She had stepped into the main living area. To her left was a small kitchen, before her was a narrow staircase leading to a closed door, and in the cabin’s back right corner, through a partially opened door, she spied a double bed. 

She felt the weight of Nott’s gaze on the back of her neck and turned to face him. She smiled to offset the sudden awkwardness. It didn’t work. 

“I’m usually more careful,” she said. “I thought the weather was clear for the night.” 

“Storms come up quickly on the coast.” 

“Right.” 

She shifted her weight, trying to suppress another shiver, but Nott noticed. His lips twitched into a smile that didn’t quite fit his face. 

“Do you want to shower?” 

“Please.” 

She followed him into the bedroom, where she tried and failed to ignore the intimacy of his unmade bed and the musky, _not-Ron_ smell. He gestured to the water closet. 

“There are clean towels in the cabinet.” 

He left without further explanation, hopefully to stoke the small fire she’d seen sputtering in the living room hearth. 

Hermione left her dripping, muddy clothes in a pile on the loo floor and set her wand on the vanity. She would Scourgify and dry them after her shower, though she grimaced at the thought of having to put on grimy, stiff clothes. Until then, however… She stepped beneath the spray, biting back a moan at the sting of hot water against her cold skin. For several minutes, she let herself soak. The child inside of her shifted. 

“It’s nice to be warm again, isn’t it?” she whispered. “We’re lucky we found this place.” 

She washed herself using a bar of white soap and finger-combed her curls as best she could. Far sooner than she wanted but later than was strictly polite, she closed the tap and wrung her hair. She wrapped herself in a worn, off-white towel, stepped out of the shower, and froze. 

Her clothes were missing. 

Her heart skipped a beat as her mind began to race. Had she dropped them in the bedroom? Two steps and an open door confirmed what she had already known: no, she hadn’t. 

She closed the door and leaned against it, staring at herself in the foggy mirror. The towel pulled across her breasts, but was too small to cover her fully. It parted over her belly, leaving her lower half bare. 

A thought niggled: maybe she had been better off outside. 

No. Hermione pushed the thought away and patted herself dry with quick efficiency. Outside had been terrible. She had been cold, wet, tired, and altogether too miserable to cast a Patronus. There was a simpler solution for her missing clothes than the one her paranoid mind had conjured. Nott might have charmed his loo to be self-cleaning or maybe he had a house-elf. Neither was unlikely, considering his heritage. There was no reason to panic. There was simply a problem to solve. 

She grabbed her wand and stepped quietly into Nott’s bedroom. She toed the door as closed as it could get without latching and took an inventory. The towel was thin but might have enough material to transfigure into a makeshift robe. A sheet would be better - thicker, warmer, longer - but she abandoned the idea after rifling through his bureau. The only bedding she could find was on his bed. She briefly considered wearing his clothes, but nixed the idea. Wearing a transfigured towel was intimate enough. Wearing Nott’s clothes was certainly a step too far. 

With a furtive glance at the door, she laid the towel across the bed and set to work stretching the pilled fabric and fashioning crude straps and a tie. She sacrificed length for width, and when she tried it on, the robe covered her belly but only dropped to mid-thigh. She cinched the strap and readjusted her grip on her wand. It would have to do. With a steadying breath and a forced smile, she opened the door. 

Nott sat facing her, his elbows on his knees. His long fingers were steepled and pressed to his lips, and before his eyes snapped to hers, they held a faraway look, contemplative in a way that made a weight drop in the pit of her stomach. 

“Sorry about the towel,” she said, reaching for humor to break the tension, “but your bathroom chose to launder my clothes.” 

His eyes made a slow inventory of her body, feet to thighs, belly to breasts. He did not look at her face. 

“When are you due?” 

The question was so commonplace that the answer slipped out before she could stop it. “One month.” 

Nott shifted, and Hermione’s heart began to race. 

“Listen, I’ve inconvenienced you enough for one night. If you could just retrieve my clothes and point me in the direction of the nearest town, I’ll be on my way.” 

Nott slowly rose to his feet. “It’s dark and cold. The storm hasn’t passed. You’ll stay here for the night.” 

“No, really, I don’t -” 

“ _Sit_ , Granger.” 

An early lesson from Hagrid rang through her head: _never show a predator your back_. She shuffled sideways to the threadbare sofa, lowering herself into it without breaking eye contact. The set of Nott’s shoulders relaxed once she was settled. 

“Tea?” 

“Okay.” 

He turned away from her and, once he was at the stove, she moved. In two silent, leaping strides she was at the door. She ripped it open and launched herself into the darkness, grabbing at the space where she had put the broom. Her fingers brushed the handle, and it tipped away from her. She tipped forward as well, caught it, ran two more stumbling steps, mounted, and kicked hard off the muddy ground. She lit with searing hope as the broom took her weight and her feet left the ground. 

And then there was a searing of something else, a hex that burned across her left arm. The broom juddered beneath her, then stopped. She looked back and saw Nott, face set in a deadly calm, with a handful of tail twigs. He yanked once, and the broom bucked backwards. There was a brief period of weightlessness before Hermione landed hard on her back, the air forced from her lungs. Nott wrapped a hand around her injured left arm and squeezed. Her vision fuzzed at the edges, and he began to drag her back to the cabin. 

“No!” 

She kicked at him, scratched, tore her fingers into the soft ground, clawing for anything to stop Nott’s inexorable march toward the cabin. She whipped her wand at him, her jinx missing by inches, then stars burst across her vision as his hand connected with her cheek. 

~*~*~

The wooden beam ceiling of Nott’s bedroom came into focus. Hermione shifted and felt the cold weight of metal against her wrists and ankles. Nott loomed next to the bed. Her robe was splayed open, every muddy inch of her revealed for his perusal, but he stared only at her belly. 

“Please.” Her voice was hoarse with terror and tears streamed down her face. “Please, Theo, let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I won’t -” 

“Quiet.” 

“Theo, please, my child, I can’t -” 

“ _Quiet_.” 

“Why are you doing this?” 

He looked away from her belly to scowl at her and grab a mug from the nightstand. He shoved it against her lips, the porcelain scraping across her top teeth. 

“Drink.” 

The bittersweet taste of Dreamless Sleep rolled across her tongue. She spat it out. 

“No, it will hurt -” 

She thrashed as the mug tipped again. An overlarge dose spilled into her mouth, running from the corners and trailing sticky lines down her neck while Nott pinched her nostrils shut. He tipped her head back with a firm hand beneath her chin. 

“Swallow or suffocate.” 

Her stomach roiled, but it was too late. The potion - a stronger brew than normal - had already started to take effect, drawing her eyelids down and adding weight to her limbs. She felt a vague panic about passing out on her back and reached for Nott. The chains barely rattled. 

“My baby -” she said, but got no further before her world faded to black. 

~*~*~

Nott had pulled the living room chair to Hermione’s bedside. He sat slouched with his arms crossed over his chest. When he noticed her eyes flutter open, he reached for the mug. 

“No, please.” Hermione’s tongue felt heavy. She spoke slowly, hoping he would understand. “It’s bad for the baby.” 

He paused, the potion suspended between them. “How bad?” 

Her mind pounced on the first logical, somewhat defensible excuse it could find. “Magical development. It might be a Squib.” 

He waited a moment longer before setting the mug down. 

“What is it?” He nodded at her belly, still bare and crusted with dried mud. “Boy or girl?” 

Hermione’s eyes filled with tears. Ron had wanted to know. She had wanted it to be a surprise. 

“I don’t know.” 

Nott’s expression tightened. It wasn’t the answer he’d wanted. Good. She needed some measure of power, no matter how frail. 

“You have to let me go, Theo.” 

“You know I won’t.” 

“One arm,” she begged, “so that I can roll onto my side. It’s dangerous for me to be on my back. It’s hard for me to breathe.” Nott looked unmoved, so she added the real reason, the piece of information which would confirm his motivations and direct her behavior until she could manage an escape. “The baby’s heart rate may drop.” 

He shifted, and Hermione had her answer. 

“Are you lying to me?” 

She shook her head. 

He stood and withdrew his wand. With a pass, the chains securing her left arm and leg disappeared. She rolled onto her right side and inhaled deeply. The child inside her shifted, sending warm relief through her. 

A relief that turned cold as Nott’s hand came to rest upon her stomach. 

~*~*~

It took two days for Hermione to convince Nott that she could not remain bedridden. Even then, he let her into the cabin’s living space reluctantly. She circuited the small area to stretch her legs, taking in every detail. The threadbare sofa from which she had attempted her first escape led to a small bookshelf filled mostly with academic texts on potions, anatomy, and astronomy. Next was a small hearth, but if it was connected to the Floo Network, he kept the accompanying powder out of sight. A radio with an aerial so bent that Hermione doubted it got reception sat on a low side table. A dusty patch of floor indicated the usual home of the chair Nott had dragged into the bedroom. 

“What are you thinking?” 

That he had as much right to her thoughts as he had to her child. 

That the room’s two small windows provided the most likely point of egress, and that she would try to escape through them first. 

That, despite the rage and fear quarrelling for control inside of her, she needed to maintain control and play his game. 

Her eyes drifted to his. “Do you have anything to eat?” 

Nott pulled out the far seat of his two-person kitchen table. He waited until she sat down before turning his back on her. 

She froze: Nott’s wand was in his back pocket. 

The calculations were unconscious and instant: distance, speed, momentum, force of impact, centre of gravity. If she was quick, if she was quiet, she might have a chance. 

She braced her palms against the worn butcher block tabletop, her fingers pressing into its grooves and scars as she prepared to bolt. The muscles in her legs flexed. She leaned forward out of the chair. 

Then she saw the knife. 

Withdrawn from a block on the counter, the steel blade was over six inches long. Afternoon light glinted off its perfectly honed, razor-thin edge. He brought it to the cutting board in a quick rhythm, slicing through potatoes, carrots, celery, and an onion with practised efficiency. 

He glanced over his shoulder at her and smirked, reading her thoughtlessly frank expression. 

“Cooking is a natural extension of Potioneering,” he explained, as if it weren’t commonly known that some of London’s best chefs were also its most talented brewers. “I was top of our Potions class every year but our Sixth. Did you know that?” 

“No.” 

The knife flashed, turning end-over-end through the air and landing with its point hovering over the skin above her right eye. Nott flicked his finger. The tip pierced her skin with just enough pressure to draw a bead of blood. 

“Don’t _lie_. You knew. That’s all you ever cared about.” 

Hermione’s stomach heaved. The feel of the wood grain against her fingers was all that kept her tethered, from sprinting away and earning a knife in the back for her trouble. 

“I was second,” she admitted, her voice trembling, “except for Sixth Year.” 

“When you were third.” 

It wasn’t a question. Hermione nodded anyway. 

The knife drifted backwards. Nott walked up to meet it, scooping it from the air and spinning it around his fingers like she might do with her wand. The rotation ended at her neck, the blade resting against her skin as gently as a kiss. He leaned down so that their eyes were level. 

“I want this to work.” 

Another implied question. 

“Yes,” she said, nodding again. “I’m sorry. I won’t, I won’t -” 

“Good,” he finished for her. 

With a flick of his wrist, the knife was gone, the steel blade tucked back against his forearm. Hermione winced as he leaned close and rested his lips against her forehead. He pressed his tongue against knife’s puncture and cleaned the blood from her skin. 

He turned back toward the countertop, throwing a casual, “How do you like beef stew?” over his shoulder as he resumed cutting. 

The knife knocked a steady cadence as Hermione sagged forward, silent and terrified. 

~*~*~

There was nothing simple about their arrangement. Nott was unpredictable, mild-mannered one day and fierce the next, suspicious and unguarded in spurts. The smallest details, like the rate at which she ate or a surreptitious glance out the window, could be enough to turn him. And once his eyes hardened, there was little she could do but remain still and silent and hope that his mania passed without harm. 

She wondered if it were intentional - a strategy purposefully designed to keep her wary and weary. Yet there were times when he looked at her, or, more accurately, her pregnant belly, and seemed conflicted. He would grow quiet and contemplative. Sometimes he would ask her a personal question. What colour were her bedroom walls? What was her favourite season? How did Ron propose to her? 

She told him everything, _anything_ , that would illustrate her humanity. She needed to show him that she was more than a just vessel for the child inside of her. Because that was what he cared about. When he curled up around her at night, his legs tucking in close to hers and rattling the chains he still forced her to wear, he never became aroused. Even when she pressed up against him, consciously or not, a sharp rebuke let her know that he could not be manipulated in that way, though it may have worked on any other captor. 

It was only when he draped his arm over her middle, when his hand splayed wide over her belly and his palm followed the movements of her baby, did something shift in him. The cadence of his breath steadied, the beat of his heart slowed. 

Hermione had known since her capture that Nott wanted her child. What she hadn’t known, but what had occurred to her with growing certainty over the weeks she stayed with him, was that her child was all Nott wanted. 

Once he had it, he would kill her. 

~*~*~

In mid-December, Hermione woke with the feeling that something was amiss. Nott had already vanished her chains, and she rose from the bed feeling off-kilter. She planted her feet on the cool wood floor and waited, wondered. Would this be the day she gave birth? The day she died? 

Hours later, the first contraction hit. 

She remembered trying to hide it, keeping her face impassive through the deep, clenching pain, but the tension in her eyes must have given it away. And when Nott asked, what could she do but tell the truth? 

He forced a potion down her throat, something warm that burned like cheap whiskey, and the rest was a blur. 

Hours later (it must have been), an infant’s squall broke through Hermione’s daze. She pried her eyes open and lifted her leaden arms. 

“Theo.” Her throat hurt. Had she been screaming? “Theo, please.” 

His back was to her, his head bent over the bundle he cradled in his arms. She didn’t bother quelling her tears or silencing the shake that rode her voice as she reached for him and begged. 

“Please, Theo, let me hold her. Let me hold my baby.” 

Nott glanced over his shoulder, his look calculating. Deciding she posed little risk, he sat on the edge of the bed. 

“Him,” Nott corrected, pressing the bundle into her arms. “Cassius.” 

“Cassius,” she repeated as she looked upon the face of perfection. He had a tuft of dark hair and a nose she thought would grow to be long and pointed. Just like his father’s. 

_Ron_. 

She had tried not to think of him during her month of captivity, but there was no avoiding his memory now, with the physical proof of his existence resting peacefully in her arms. He should’ve been there to witness the birth of his son. To hold him and hug her and feel the joy and terror and weight of a new life. She clutched Cassius close, each heaving inhale filling her with his sweet scent, the memory of his father, and the injustice of a world that would separate them. 

“That’s enough.” 

Nott reached toward them, but sparks trembled across his skin the moment he made contact with Cassius, the magic she cast instinctual and effective. He flinched away and left her with a look of loathing, letting her mourn in peace. 

~*~*~

Over six months, Hermione watched her son change. He grew longer and heavier. The features of his face became more defined, and the dark blue eyes with which he had been born lightened into a transfixing blue-hazel. His hair remained dark, like hers, and though it was still wispy, it showed more waves than curls. He smiled at her when she spoke and laughed when she played with his feet. 

And when Nott took Cassius from her arms, he gurgled with that same, simple pleasure of a child besotted with his parents. 

In those moments, Hermione’s hate for Nott simmered close to the surface. She couldn’t hide it, and if Nott had had any interest in her, he would’ve seen it in her narrowed eyes and clenched jaw. As it was, Nott’s interest in her extended only as far as her capacity to feed Cassius. Even that was dwindling, as Cassius began to try soft solids. 

Nott would kill her soon. 

She had to escape sooner. 

~*~*~

Nott’s ignorance was his weakness. He knew nothing about raising a child, and Hermione’s knowledge and habit of good behaviour were her only sources of power. When she told him that Cassius would become vitamin D deficient, Nott let them outside for a few hours every day. The baby foods she suggested were invariably purchased on his weekly excursions into whatever town neighboured his miserable shack. 

He trusted her, somewhat, and that was enough. 

She timed her escape for late July, when the days were long, the weather consistent, and Cassius had outgrown his limited wardrobe. The shopping list she provided Nott was long, but he didn’t blink. Just read it, folded it twice, and slipped it into his back pocket. He passed a gentle hand across Cassius’ downy head and shut the door. 

She waited fifteen minutes, circuiting the cabin with Cassius in her arms. Without missing a step, she set him down on the floor. 

She tried the windows first, her pace measured and her movements unhurried. She tried the doors next, then the floorboards. Luck. The slightest wiggle in the bedroom, in a board partly beneath the bed. Back in the living area, she hefted Cassius in one arm and glanced toward the kitchen. Nott had never bothered to hide the knives from her - what good was a knife against a wand? But the blades were thin enough to slip between the slats of the floorboard and strong enough to provide leverage. 

She used the paring knife to shave away the old, flaking wood, delighting as the shiny steel blade dulled and bent. She shoved the edge of the meat cleaver into the widened gap, angling it down and applying pressure. The wooden slat gave way with a groan. 

After two more planks, she could wedge her hips through the joists, but the relief of it was tempered by sadness: she was underfed, which meant Cassius was, too. Her toes dug into the cold, compressed dirt as she reached for her baby. He smiled and waved his arms, his toothless smile wide and trusting. 

“We’re going to be okay,” she whispered, shielding his head as she lowered him to the ground. His face screwed up in discomfort as the cold seeped through his thin romper. She snatched a long, thin-bladed boning knife and ducked below before Cassius started crying. She pulled him near and kept a warm arm around him as she surveyed the cabin’s underside. The back of the crawl space was closed off by a concrete stem wall, but the front was open. She had a clear path out through two rows of wooden piers. 

She turned her head to Cassius, who looked uncertain when she began to inch forward. 

“It’s okay,” she whispered again, trying to keep him distracted from the dead spiders, animal faeces, and rodent bedding. “We’ll get through this.” 

She maintained the patter as she crawled, and Cassius’ whines never escalated. His implicit trust made her eyes tear. He was so like Ron. 

The midday sun was a balm after the crawl space, but there was no time to waste. She scooped Cassius up and propped him against her hip. With the knife in her other hand, she started to run. 

The way before was clear. The air was warm and heavy, the forest fragrant and green. She almost laughed. They were going to make it. 

And then the world flew out from beneath her. The knife spiralled from her fingers as her body fell through the air. Cassius wailed as she struck the ground. He bounced off her chest and rolled, screaming as he landed on his back an arm’s length away. She scrambled toward him, just inches shy. Then a hand twisted into her hair and yanked. Her neck cracked as Nott pulled her head up and back. A hammer of pain slammed into the small of her back and her legs went numb. 

“It was only ever a matter of time,” he growled. 

She clawed at his hands and face, bloody skin collecting beneath her broken fingernails. He bashed her head against the ground, and when the world reappeared, she faced forward again. He pulled so hard that her torso arched off the ground, the pressure of it tearing hair from her scalp. It hurt to breathe. 

“ _Women_.” The word dripped scorn and derision. “They _lie_. They _deceive_.” 

“ _Cassius_.” She could barely speak, a wheezing rattle as her throat constricted. 

“He’ll be a true partner. Reliable. Malleable. Just like his father.” 

“You are _not_ … his father.” 

Blood pounded in her ears as Nott drew a line of fire across her throat. And then the fire was spilling out of her, gushing down her neck and splattering onto the lush soil, making her cold. The world darkened around the edges, taking everything but her son. 

Cassius was red faced and wailing, but she could not hear his cries. His blue-hazel eyes were squinted, almost closed, and his little fingers were clenched into tight fists. Pollen swirled around his flailing arms, creating golden fractals in the afternoon sunlight. 

She had never seen anything so beautiful.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

_Ten Years Later…_

Cassius sat at the kitchen table and watched his father work. He wondered when it would happen; there was no question of _if_. Cassius thought it might be during stirring. His father didn’t allow him near the cauldron while he brewed, but he had learned enough from afar to know that stirring was usually the most important part. An incorrect twist of the spoon could cause a meltdown or an explosion or… 

The low fire beneath the cauldron suddenly blazed, engulfing the pot in a shroud of orange and yellow and further charring the oft-singed lintel. His father leapt backwards, hissing as he held his burned hand to his chest. Even Cassius flinched. He hadn’t been expecting that. 

“ _Granger_.” 

It was a common curse in their household, but one Cassius couldn’t find in any dictionary. He tried it out a few times - on his own, of course, as he’d never intentionally risk a disciplinary Cruciatus - and didn’t find it particularly satisfying. Though it did cause things to happen. _Granger_. The pages of an open book would flip on their own. _Granger_. The curtain would move, though there were no open windows. _Granger_. All the candles in his small attic bedroom would flick out at once, then light themselves one by one. 

He didn’t think it was magic, but now that he had his Hogwarts spell books… He idly flipped through the prologue of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ , and his eyes drifted to his wand. His father had given it to him after they’d come home from Diagon. He’d tapped out a short sequence on the stones of the chimney, reached into the gaping space where a brick used to sit, and tossed it to him carelessly, with none of the gravity he’d witnessed through Ollivanders’ windows. It was almost eleven inches long with swirling, creeping carvings in the wood that reminded him of vines. He felt it hum beneath his fingers. Warmth like dragon’s fire seeped through his veins at every touch. 

“I thought I banished you,” his father muttered. 

Cassius drew his hand away from his wand and gave his father a side-eyed glance. This, too, was part of the routine: a conversation with no one. Did his father expect an answer? 

“You can’t stay here forever.” 

Did he get one? 

“Father?” 

He sent a cold look over his shoulder. “Fetch me some aloe.” 

Cassius left the front door ajar as he walked to the rear of the cabin. Tucked back amongst the trees was a modest greenhouse. It was an ugly thing, made without care; its roof too sharply pitched to clean properly, its glass panes old and warped, its seals cracked and peeling, and its interior drafty, especially in the winter. Its shelves were crowded with plants of all sizes and shapes, arranged too close together for any to flourish as they should. Most of the plants provided potion ingredients, though there were a few medicinal varieties and cooking herbs, too. Nothing purely ornamental, however. Nothing without a use. His father was interested in the greenhouse only for what it could do for him, tended the plants only as much as was needed to keep them alive, and generally detested the work of caring for them. 

Cassius knew too well what that brand of apathy felt like. 

He inhaled deeply as he opened the greenhouse door, the smell denser and sweeter than that of the surrounding forest, and felt a wave of calm wash over him. 

He loved this place. 

The greenhouse was where he first showed an aptitude for magic. Just two years ago, his father had allowed him in to observe his work. While he had pruned the hellebore and harvested poppy pods, Cassius had spotted a dying rose bush. It had produced a single white flower - small, wilted, and pathetic, a last-ditch attempt at survival. Unthinking, he touched it. The bloom fell to the gravel floor, and a pair of pruning shears slammed into his face as his father calmly reminded him of the consequences of disobedience. 

Bleeding, disoriented, his father winding back for another blow, a rustle to his right. His father paused, and Cassius peeked from beneath his arms to see the dead rose bush sprouting new branches, verdant leaves, and dozens of buds. They watched in silence as the buds curled open, perfuming the air with a light, honeyed scent. His father lowered the shears and looked at Cassius with something like satisfaction. 

“About time,” he had said. Then he had turned back to his pruning as if nothing had happened. 

Cassius was brought into the greenhouse consistently after that. After a few months, he was left to tend the plants unaccompanied. More than the quiet pride of finally being of use to his father, Cassius relished the opportunity to be alone. To hum and whisper to his plants. To run his fingers across their curled leaves and watch them flare wide, as if his skin were sunshine. To breathe easy, without feeling as though a weight were set upon his chest and that a full exhale would crush him beneath it. It was a selfish feeling, and he felt guilty for the pleasure of it. But if he were helping his father, maybe it was okay. 

He trailed his fingers along the plants on either side of him, and each one seemed to stand a bit taller as he passed. He knelt down by the aloe at the rear of the greenhouse and ran a finger along the edge of a large, spiny leaf. 

“Sorry,” he whispered, gripping the leaf at the base, “but it’s for Father.” 

It was a clean break, and Cassius left quickly, promising to spend extra time with the aloe later. 

Shutting the greenhouse door felt like closing a part of himself away, but entering the cabin felt like losing himself completely. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, and his skin prickled, cold after just a few minutes in the July heat. His father had taken his seat at the table. He’d shoved Cassius’ spell book away, and his wand now lay on the floor. His father’s blistering hand trembled as he held it aloft. 

“She got me good.” 

His father took the proffered aloe, set it on the table, then held out his hand as if he were expecting another leaf. Cassius paused, unsure of what he wanted, then he saw the shift in his father’s expression. 

A cold weight settled into Cassius’ stomach. He was an idiot. His father was impossible to anticipate, but this was inexcusable. What use was an aloe leaf on its own? Of course he needed a knife. He crossed the room in an instant, drawing the paring knife from its home in the block and handing it over handle-first before… 

It was too late. His father’s hazel eyes had settled into the look he reserved for when something unpleasant was about to happen. Something painful. 

Cassius bit his tongue to keep from crying - it was his own fault, after all - and took a step backwards. He hoped his father would use the wand instead of the knife. He was far more dangerous with the latter, gutting the aloe with a quick draw of the blade. 

“Who is she?” Cassius asked. If he was going to be punished for forgetting the knife, he might as well make it worthwhile. And that was the strange thing about his father. He was volatile and scary, and the wrong question could end in days of agony, but when asked, he always answered truthfully. 

“She?” 

“She got you good,” Cassius parroted. “Who is _she_?” 

His father’s lips quirked. He set the knife down. “ _Granger_.” 

Granger wasn’t a curse; she was a person. That explained some things. 

“How do you know her?” 

His father paused, the aloe globbed on his fingers hovering over his burned palm. 

“She’s your mother.” 

Cassius felt as though the air had been sucked from the room. He didn’t have a mother. Biologically, he did - he had to, he knew that - but she was gone. His father had made that clear over the years, on the rare occasions he’d risked punishment to ask about her. Now, he’d finally asked the right question at the right time. 

“Where is she?” 

His father’s eyes surveyed the cabin. “Granger?” 

The fire roared again, the force behind it enough to dislodge the cauldron and send the potion - now assuredly ruined - oozing across the floor. 

“Vindictive harpy.” His father spread the aloe and, not looking, asked a question. “Would you like to meet her?” 

Cassius considered the query for a moment. No answer seemed safe, but refusing to answer at all would be worse. “No.” 

His father nodded and, wiping the remnants of the aloe onto his trousers, stood. 

“Fair enough.” 

Cassius tensed as his father aimed his wand. He promised himself not to scream. 

~*~*~

Late that night, when the pain had mostly passed and he had ceased to hear movement in his father’s room below, Cassius wandlessly lit a candle. It was the only magic he could do outside of the greenhouse, more based on instinct than intention. He sat cross-legged on his bed and faced the light, his eyes drifting to stare out the small window beyond. 

“Granger? Are you there?” He spoke quietly. 

He thought he saw the curtain twitch. 

“Extinguish the candle for yes.” 

It went out. 

A chill raced down his spine. He almost didn’t relight it, but then thought back to his punishment earlier. It had been a bad one, his father holding the Cruciatus for longer than usual. He hadn’t left after breaking it, either, instead remaining to watch as Cassius cleaned up his own mess of vomit and urine, his face a rictus of disgust while tears trailed down Cassius’ cheeks. He hadn’t endured that just to back down now. 

“Are you going to hurt me?” 

The flame did not waver. 

Cassius hung his head, embarrassed. “That was a dumb question. If you wanted to hurt me, you could’ve done so by now.” 

A puff of smoke. At least he had one ally. 

“Was my father lying? Are you really my mother?” 

The flame flickered, and Cassius realised his mistake. 

“Are you my mother?” 

Darkness. 

Cassius sat in it for a long time. He had a mother, and she was dead. Except she wasn’t, not all the way. Except she _was_ , in all the ways that mattered. She couldn’t protect him from his father or kiss his hurts or teach him enough magic to escape this place. 

“You shouldn’t have left,” he whispered. “Father hurts me, and you could’ve stopped him. You could’ve loved me enough to survive.” 

He wiped his eyes, but still the tears came. How could he miss someone he’d never even met? 

“What happened?” He knew it was rhetorical. He hadn’t even relit the candle. “Did you get sick? Was it… Was it my fault?” 

The candle lit on its own, then immediately winked out again. Light, dark, light, dark. Small comfort: it wasn’t his fault. 

He lit the candle again. 

“Can I see you?” 

A wavering flame. 

“I won’t be afraid,” he promised, voice choked with grief. “I just want to know if…” 

Cassius could write books on all he wanted to know. How did she meet his father? How did they fall in love? Was she a good cook? What were her favourite books? Would she hug him if he were hurt, and what would that feel like? Did she like plants? A million important questions and yet the one that mattered least was the one that came out. 

“If you look like me.” 

The candle extinguished and a soft, blue-tinged ambience took shape before him. She appeared piecemeal, slowly, as if she’d never done it before, kneeling before him with her eyes closed in concentration. A mess of curly hair, a small forehead, a nose that wasn’t as sharp or as long as his. Lips he thought might’ve informed his and a chin that surely had. Her eyes fluttered open and immediately brimmed with pearlescent tears, which rolled down her cheeks like rivers of fog. She smiled at him, uncertain and sad. 

He reached out to her, and she buried her face into her hands, overcome. His hand felt like it had plunged into ice water as it passed through hers. He drew it away with a gasp. 

“Say something?” He sounded small and vulnerable, even to his own ears, and he was momentarily ashamed of himself. But to hear his mother’s voice after a decade of silence… 

Granger dropped her hands and shook her head. She wouldn’t speak to him. 

“Nothing to say?” he snapped, his sadness suddenly turning into bitter anger. 

She put her hand to her throat and shook her head again. 

“You can’t.” He flushed with shame at how quickly he’d turned on her - he was more like his father than he thought. When he could stand to look at her again, he noticed a strange darkness behind her transparent hand. He narrowed his eyes. “What happened to your throat?” 

She shook her head and lowered her chin, smiling at him again. It was a distraction. And there was his anger, spilling over once more. 

“Move your hand,” he hissed. 

She hesitated, seeming to weigh the options, then lowered her hand. Her neck had been carved cleanly with a single, narrow cut that started under one ear and ended under the other. Her skin and clothes below the cut were sheeted with dark blue pearlescence. But Cassius knew what it really was. 

“He killed you?” It wasn’t really a question. “Father killed you.” 

She bobbed her head - not a yes, not a no. Another ambiguous question. Cassius looked about the room, then picked up _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ from his nightstand. He flipped to a random page in the forward and held the book sideways between them. 

“Explain.” 

Her eyes shone with pride - _real pride_ \- before they turned to scan the page. She used her finger to point at the letters and, after some stumbling, Cassius had his explanation. 

“Nott isn’t my father.” 

Had he always known it, deep in his heart? Or had he just always wanted it to be true so badly that hearing it felt less apocalyptic than it should have? Was it relief he felt, knowing that Nott’s cruelty was not in him, too? That he was not predestined to violence? He ran his fingers across the scar on his face, left by the pruning shears. Across the lumpy welts on his wrist, left by boiling oil. Flexed toes that had been broken and set, breathed into ribs that had been bruised, fisted hands that had wiped up too much of his own blood and snot. Countless trivial transgressions had earned him a childhood of pain, fear, and crippling anxiety. He would never measure up to his father’s expectations, yet he would he never stop trying to. 

But Nott wasn’t his father. 

His father was a stranger. Cassius might have passed him on the street in the nearby hamlet or today in Diagon Alley. His father might not even know about him and thus couldn’t hate him or love him or be disappointed in him. His father might be as dead as his mother. 

He wiped his eyes and looked up at her, feeling oddly steady. 

“What do I do?” 

_Go to Hogwarts_ , he read. _Talk to the Headmistress. Don’t let him know_. 

He met her eyes at this last instruction, incredulous. 

“I can’t stay here. If he suspects, he’ll kill me.” 

It wasn’t a new realisation by any stretch, but it was strange to finally say it aloud. Nott had come close to killing him before. If he thought his secret was threatened, there would be nothing to stop him. Cassius was certain. 

Granger turned back toward the book. _Hogwarts. Headmistress_. 

“I can’t lie to him. He’ll know.” 

His mother’s eyes fogged with tears once more. _I trust you_. 

“I can’t -” 

_One month_. 

Cassius pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars. School started on September 1. It was now the end of July. He had survived over ten years with Nott, but one more month felt insurmountable, especially considering what he knew. 

“I don’t want to lose you again,” Cassius said, dropping his arms. “Will you stay with me?” 

Granger’s shoulders relaxed as she took the subject change as agreement. _Always_. 

She looked earnest and honest; Cassius couldn’t help but believe her. Yet he sighed as he closed the book and replaced it onto his nightstand. He lay on top of his blankets and looked over to his mother’s wide eyes and ruined neck. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, and her lips tugged into a soft smile, even as she disappeared. 

Cassius knew she had his best interests at heart. Her advice to go to Hogwarts was well-intentioned and rational, and together they could make sure that Nott was punished for what he’d done. But her advice was naive, too. She overestimated Cassius’ ability to deceive and underestimated Nott’s cruelty and intuition. 

He stared at the ceiling for two hours, calculating alternate solutions and consistently circling back to the same one. Finally, he sat up and put his feet on the floor. He couldn’t wait a month. This needed to be resolved tonight. 

Granger appeared before him at the foot of the stairs. Her face was set. She mouthed a stern, _No_. But Cassius wasn’t looking at her face. She was thin and filthy. Starved and ignored. And the blood… There was so much blood. 

He walked right through her, headed toward the kitchen. He stopped at the knife block and considered his selection. Nott had shared little of his knowledge explicitly, but Cassius had always paid attention. Every task had its perfect tool. Cassius considered his choices carefully. A longer blade that could penetrate deep. A thinner blade that could slip between the ribs. A tapered tip that could puncture effectively. 

The boning knife would work. 

He withdrew it from the block with the whisper of steel on wood and crept across the cabin to Nott’s bedroom door. Granger reappeared, a final attempt to turn him away. His hand plunged through her midsection to grip the doorknob. He eased the door open an inch at a time. Granger disappeared, taking the light with her, and Cassius paused to let his eyes adjust. 

He slipped into the room and waited at the door. Nott’s breathing remained steady. He paused at the bedside and looked at Nott’s face. There was no indication of the monster that lurked beneath the skin. He was just a man. 

Cassius raised the knife and held it with both hands. Then, with a sharp inhale, drove it down with all the power he could muster. The knife plunged into Nott’s flesh, nicking a rib but still striking home. Nott’s eyes snapped open as blood oozed onto Cassius’ clenched fists. He gasped once, looked at Cassius, at the knife handle in his chest. Then he roared. Cassius yanked at the knife, but it was stubborn, stuck on the bone, and then he was sailing across the room, backhanded by Nott. 

Nott lurched out of bed, staggering forward as Cassius blinked away the tears. 

“I knew this day might come,” Nott rasped, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. 

“You lied,” Cassius said, chest heaving. He glanced at the doorway, but Nott was already cutting off his escape. 

Nott gripped the knife handle and pulled, gritting his teeth as he drew the knife from his chest. Blood poured from the open wound and his entire body trembled, so Cassius struck. He sprang from the wall and collided with Nott’s legs, hitting him at the knees and sending him reeling. Nott’s right shoulder struck the footboard and he screamed in pain and fury as the knife flew from his numb fingers. It clattered to the ground near the door. Cassius scrambled towards it, hand closing around the blood-slicked handle. He swung his arm back blindly and the knife arced through the air. 

Before it could strike, a hand closed over his wrist and twisted. Cassius screamed as his bones broke, the knife falling again. Cassius squirmed away, but Nott had him now, pulling him close and rolling him onto his back. Nott straddled him, the knife held over Cassius’ eye. 

“I thought you would be different!” Nott screamed. Bloody spittle frothed from his lips. “I thought you would be mine!” 

Nott fell forward and Cassius twisted, hurling his body sideways to avoid the weapon. A line of hot pain raced across his skull and the tip of his left ear, and blood gushed down his neck. Nott’s arms trembled as he tried to lift himself, but he couldn’t manage more than a few inches. 

Cassius twisted again and cried in relief as he broke the weakening cage of Nott’s arms. He dragged his legs from beneath Nott’s growing weight and kicked the hand still holding the knife. Cassius scooped it up for the final time and scrambled backwards, chest heaving, scalp bleeding, watching as Nott’s breathing grew shallower and shallower. 

Finally, it stopped. 

He screamed when Granger appeared before him. She held her hands out palms up and her expression was steady, calm. Cassius’ teeth chattered together as he spoke. 

“I’m s-s-sorry. I couldn’t w-w-wait. He would have, would have -” 

Granger floated nearer. _Okay_ , she mouthed. _It’s okay_. 

Cassius nodded, but he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel like he would be okay ever again. He leaned to the side and vomited. He spat and wiped at his mouth with the back of his unbroken hand. He chanced a look at her face. Instead of disappointment and disgust, Granger’s eyebrows were drawn together in worry. 

“I’m okay,” he said, interpreting her look. “I need t-to go.” She nodded. “But w-where? H-h-how? No one knows I’m o-out here.” 

She looked around the bedroom, then disappeared. The bedside candle flicked to life. 

As did an idea. 

“B-b-burn it,” he said. 

The flame disappeared. 

He failed to stand on his first two attempts, and his body shook so violently that he couldn’t walk without support. He braced himself against the wall, edged around Nott’s corpse, then hauled himself up the stairs. He stripped off his pillowcase and placed his Hogwarts spell books and one change of clothes inside. He tucked his wand into the waistband of his trousers. 

Granger waited for him downstairs. She pointed at a tall cabinet. Cassius used a chair and found a bottle of vodka. Next, she pointed to the curtains. He left his pillowcase outside, then entered the cabin one last time. He started in his room, dousing the bottoms of the curtains and positioning candles beneath them. 

“Will you light them?” he asked. 

Granger nodded. 

Soon, the bottle was empty and the candles were poised. Cassius left the accursed cabin and turned to see Granger at the entrance. She smiled at him, but still looked sad. 

_I love you_ , she mouthed. 

Cassius nodded. He didn’t know what he felt - if he could feel anymore - so he simply replied, “Thank you.” There would be plenty of time to get to know her when he was properly found. 

Granger disappeared and Cassius dragged his pillowcase away from the house. He sat down and leaned against a tree. The night was warm and grew warmer as the cabin began to smoulder, then rage. Somewhere during the conflagration, he nodded off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

Harry Potter Apparated to the edge of a small clearing and drew the case file from his robe. Ron Weasley appeared a moment later, still buttoning the collar of his. 

“What’s the situation?” 

Harry flipped through the file. “Magical Accidents and Catastrophes received a tip last night from Saint Sock, a nearby hamlet.” 

Ron breathed a laugh at the name and rolled his eyes. “ _Wizards_.” 

Harry shot him a quick smile. “Residents reported seeing smoke from within the forest.” 

Ron nodded toward the burned-out cabin. Beyond the smoking ruin stood a ramshackle greenhouse. “I assume that’s the source.” 

“MAC just got it under control late this morning. They found a body while performing their investigation.” 

Ron’s eyebrows rose. “Was wondering why they called us in.” He reached for the file, which Harry handed over. “Current occupant?” 

“Not on file. I have Transportation checking the Floo Network Registry, but I doubt we’ll find anything.” 

“And the Saint Sock residents had never seen anything unusual before?” 

“Not that they told MAC.” 

Ron completed his review and handed the file back over. “MAC’s cleared out?” 

Harry gave a weak laugh. “Couldn’t wait to leave. For all the accidents they see, you’d think they’d have more of a stomach for these things.” 

“We Aurors are made of tougher stuff,” Ron agreed. “Wands out, do you reckon?” 

Harry shrugged. “Can’t hurt.” 

“Wait,” a small voice demanded from behind them. 

Harry looked over his shoulder and saw a young boy covered in blood. A cut, several inches long and crusted over with dark blood, ran across one side of his scalp, and he was missing the tip of his left ear. He held his right wrist close to his chest, his left cheek was covered by a mottled, purple-blue bruise, and his eye was swollen almost entirely shut. Despite the pain he must’ve felt, the boy stood tall. His chin was set and his wand aimed at them. His expression was strangely familiar. 

Ron inhaled sharply. “What the -” 

“What’s your name?” Harry prompted. 

“Cassius.” 

“Do you know who lived here?” 

“Theodore Nott.” Cassius shifted his weight. “I killed him.” 

Neither he nor Ron moved. Theodore Nott had hardly been seen or heard from since Hogwarts. Not that anyone cared; he’d always been quiet and, Harry thought, somewhat _off_. 

“And the fire?” Ron asked. 

“I set it. I needed to be found.” 

Harry and Ron exchanged a look and sheathed their wands. The situation was unusual, but they could at least follow the outline of their department’s suspect apprehension protocol. 

Harry knelt down so that his and Cassius’ eyes were level. “You’re found now, Cassius. We’re going to take you to the Ministry of Magic in London, get you Healed up, and then ask you some questions, okay?” 

Cassius’ unbruised eye bounced between Harry and Ron, finally settling on the house. “Okay, we’ll go.” 

A beat of silence, then Ron asked, “ _We’ll_?” 

Cassius lowered his wand and approached the house, stopping when he reached the singed threshold. 

“Granger?” 

Harry froze. He’d misheard. It wouldn’t have been the first time. 

“Granger? Are you there?” 

Harry shot to standing, his heart beating triple time. Ron blinked, shook his head slowly, and then turned wide, blue eyes toward his friend. 

“Harry, what’s he - ” 

Ron tottered, and Harry steadied him with firm hands. 

“Come on, let’s sit you down.” Awkwardly, he lowered Ron onto the ground. 

“Granger?” Cassius looked back to Harry. “She’s not responding.” 

“Who is she?” Harry choked the question out. He felt nauseous. “Who’s Granger?” 

“A ghost,” Cassius said. Ron made a strangled sound. Turning toward him with furrowed brows, Cassius elaborated: “My mother.” 

A broken cry tore from Ron’s chest, and Harry felt himself sway. The hollow created by Hermione’s disappearance a decade ago was lodged deep in his heart. It was an ache that had never vanished. A story left incomplete. A puzzle unsolved. She never could have lived with the mystery. She would’ve found the answer. He’d never felt so unworthy of her as when he looked at her open case file. 

He pushed up his glasses to wipe his eyes. “Did she help you do this?” 

“Yes…” But the boy sounded unsure. He looked back at Harry. “I don’t understand.” 

Harry didn’t want to explain. He wanted to leave. He wanted to go home to Ginny and cry into her shoulder. He wanted to hold his sons and daughter close and never let them go. He wanted his family. 

But he answered. Because Cassius deserved to know. Because Cassius wanted his family, too. 

“Ghosts are tied to certain locations. If the location goes away or gets destroyed…” 

Cassius’ chin trembled. “The ghost goes too,” he finished. Tears spilled down his face as he looked up at Harry. “She helped me set the fires,” he said in a small voice. “Did she know?” 

Probably, was the honest answer. There wasn’t much Hermione hadn’t known. 

“No,” Harry said. “She didn’t know.” 

“She said she loved me.” 

“She did,” said Ron. Pale and trembling, his friend walked up to Cassius and knelt before him. He placed his hands on Cassius’ shoulders and looked into a face whose agony mirrored his own. “Your mother was Hermione Granger, and she was the cleverest, most loving, and most talented witch I’ve ever known. She loved you, Cassius. No mother could’ve loved you more.” 

**The End**


End file.
